The Boys
by Altariel
Summary: In the Houses of Healing, Faramir reflects on what the consequences of defeat might be. Written for the Teitho 'Consequences' challenge.


**The Boys**

 _The Houses of Healing, March 3019 T.A._

From an early age, the twenty-seventh Steward of Gondor had known that his task in life was to put his body between the Enemy and the City, to stand and fall in defence of Gondor. He had done it once – and survived, somehow – and he was prepared to do it again if needed. Next time, he suspected, the end would be very different.

He had pondered many times, since his unlikely survival, what would happen should hope fail and the Enemy regain the Ring. Would the end be swift? Would he watch from the walls as the hordes sped towards them across the Pelennor? Would he stand before the already broken gates and face whatever came? Would she stand beside him? That, perhaps, was the only certainty. He knew that she would, and he would count himself blessed that she was there.

He knew too that a swift end would be a mercy – and surely the Enemy had no mercy to show the last of the Faithful? Was the end then to be slow? Húrin, after all, spent thirty years chained high on the peaks of Thangorodrim, watching the ruin of all whom he loved. What torments would Sauron devise for the last lord of the Númenoreans? For such he would be, should the King fall at the Black Gate. Would there be another siege, this time with no hope of relief? Would his people be eating stones, such that he could no longer bear the sight, and so kneel before the Enemy and bow his head in surrender? Would there be long years afterwards, watching what remained of Gondor crumble and decay, her people enslaved, the land rotting, the skies darkening? He would do all this, if necessary, if that was the task at hand. Endurance was not the least of his gifts.

He feared for her, however, in this case. All their thoughts, their hopes, their desires would be laid bare should the Enemy be victorious. He would not be able to conceal this joyful, altering, powerful love. How could he bear to have that twisted, turned from sweet to bitter? This, he knew, could be his downfall. To see her suffer? That could break him, in the end, as his father had been broken. That would be made the means of his extinction even if, for now, seeing life and colour return to her was bringing him back to life in turn. He thought, _I will stand with her, as best I can. I will stand beside her._

Such were his tasks for the future, presumably. But what about now? To heal, yes, to be ready – whatever came next would need strength of body as much as strength of mind. But also to wait. How best, then, to do this? What could he do, now, in this short time available to him, to see that something survived? How far back could he fall, and still feel that some last ember of Númenor was still alight? Back from the city. Back through the mountains, down the rivers, back as far as the Sea, down upon his knees. This time he would not despair. He would not be deceived that way again. As long as there was breath in his body then something of the Land of Gift remained, some faint memory of the promise and the glory of Men – but after him?

Sitting and waiting, trying to heal, he would see the boys, running errands around the House. So young, some of them – no more than ten, Beregond's son – and yet here they were in the thick of things. They had seen sights no child should see. Sometimes he saw Bergil, hovering beside him, and would remember that the boy had seen him on the threshold of death.

One afternoon, when he was sitting with Éowyn in the garden, busy with his task of coaxing back to life the spark he knew still lay within her, three of the boys came past, Bergil among them. She called to them to join them. They sat down on the grass at their feet, and talked. He did card tricks for them. Their laughter made him happy; so did the faint glimpse of mischief in her eyes. He realised, as they spoke, that they did not believe, these children, that the Men of Minas Tirith would fail. Why should they? Bergil, after all, had seen his Captain brought back from the threshold of death. Bergil had seen the King. They had all, hadn't they, seen him – here, right here in the halls of this very House. They had Beregond of the Guard too, riding with Elfstone to throw down the Black Gate. And they had him, their Captain Faramir. Their City would not fall. Their fathers would come home, and their King would return.

He dreamed that night (the dreams came thick in these last days) of the boys, slipping off along the mountain paths. He knew that in this dream he himself was dead, struck down again before the gates, and that the City was on fire. Yet his spirit soared high above them, as if carried by an eagle on the wind. He heard their quiet voices, as they disappeared under cloak of darkness, and knew as he passed beyond the Circles of the World that something of the West still lingered.

When he woke, in the still light of dawn, he lay for a while upon the bed. He hoped that all his dreams might be this sweet. He hoped that Varda would grant him light in the darkness. He hoped Estë would give him healing and peace of mind. He hoped Mandos would not to judge him too harshly. He hoped the One would pardon them, the Men of the West, for their pride and their treason, that had cost them the Land of Gift. He hoped Nienna would grant them strength to endure the coming days.

And since he was a man whose life had been spared for other ends, he lived to see his hopes come true. He saw her laugh for joy as they became husband and wife. He saw her eyes dim at the end. He saw Bergil swear to protect the Prince's heir. He saw children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. He saw all that would survive him when he claimed the gift of the Men.

* * *

 _Altariel, 24_ _th_ _September 2018_


End file.
